chapter 167

chapter 167
Sebastian's POV:
I approached slowly, my footsteps echoing against the linoleum with deliberate softness.
The chrysanthemums held carefully in both hands like an offering to gods I didn't believe in, and watched Noah's posture shift the moment he registered my presence.
His body was moving to place himself more completely between his sister and potential threat, his height and breadth suddenly seeming far more imposing than they had any right to be.
"Grace," I said quietly, injecting just the right amount of somber concern into my tone. "I came as soon as I heard about Maverick. I thought you might want—"
Grace emerged from behind Noah's protective bulk with movements that carried none of her usual grace, her steps jerky and uncoordinated.
When her eyes finally focused on my face, I saw something there that made my stomach clench—not the blank incomprehension of trauma-induced amnesia I'd been counting on, but sharp, clear recognition stripped of any pretense of friendship.
The loathing in her gaze was so visceral she could barely contain it, her pupils contracting as if my very presence physically repulsed her.
"Don't," she said, her voice coming out rough and damaged from what I assumed were hours of crying.
Her gaze dropped to the white rose in my hands before snapping back to my face with an expression of such pure, undiluted contempt that I actually felt myself take an involuntary half-step backward.
"Don't you dare call me by my first name like we're friends, like you have any right to stand here offering condolences when we both know exactly what role you played in putting him in that operating room."
The words hit with unexpected force. Grace remembered everything.
Noah shifted his weight, his hands curling into fists at his sides in a gesture that suggested he was seriously contemplating violence.
"I only wanted to express my concern," I said carefully, maintaining the facade of wounded civility. "Whatever else has happened between us, Maverick is still my brother, and I thought—"
"Get out," Grace interrupted, her voice dropping to something barely above a whisper but carrying more authority than any scream could have achieved. "Get out of this hospital, get out of my sight, and if you have any shred of decency left in whatever passes for your soul, stay the hell away from me and everyone I care about."
I shifted my grip on the bouquet deliberately, angling it so the white roses became more prominent. "At least pass these along for me," I said, extending the flowers toward her with what I hoped looked like genuine concern.
Grace's eyes went cold instantly, the temperature in them dropping to something glacial and absolute. "Keep them for yourself," she said, her voice flat and final. "He won't be needing them."
"You sure about that?" I asked, letting just enough edge creep into my tone to make the implication clear.
The words barely left my mouth before Grace closed the distance between us in two quick strides, ripping the bouquet from my hands with enough violence that several stems snapped.
She threw it to the ground and began crushing it beneath her feet, white petals and yellow chrysanthemums alike pulverized into the linoleum. "Are you fucking deaf?" Her voice shook with barely restrained fury. "Or do you just not understand human speech?"
Noah stepped forward, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "Leave now, Thorne. While you still can. Because if I have to tell you one more time, I won't be asking."
I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, taking several steps backward toward the elevator.
Before turning away completely, I let my gaze linger on Grace one last moment.
"See you around," I said quietly, the words carrying a promise she couldn't possibly understand yet.
Because I'd come here for confirmation, and I'd gotten it—Maverick was still critical, still hovering somewhere between life and death. That knowledge alone was enough to make my body feel lighter, my mind clearer.
And when he finally died, when that particular obstacle was permanently removed, Grace and I would have all the time in the world to continue this conversation. All the time in the world.
---
Dawn found me in my apartment, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked St. Jude's downtown core.
I watched the city wake up in gradual increments of light and movement.
Behind me, the television murmured—local news anchors delivering their morning briefing with practiced cheerfulness, as if paid specifically to maintain the illusion that the world was fundamentally ordered and just.
"—in a breaking development in yesterday's hit-and-run case, police have confirmed that suspect Jessica Walker has confessed to deliberately targeting the vehicle driven by Maverick Cross," the anchor was saying, her voice carrying that particular tone of manufactured gravity that news personalities adopted when discussing tragedy.
"Walker, who was already facing charges related to an earlier incident at Mr. Thorn's residence, has been charged with attempted murder and is being held without bail pending trial. The victim remains in critical condition at St. Jude Memorial Hospital, where doctors say the next twenty-four hours will be crucial in determining his prognosis."
The case was closed, then. Neat. Tidy.
Jessica had confessed, and the official narrative would be that of a disturbed young woman acting alone, driven by jealousy and rejection to commit an act of senseless violence that had nothing whatsoever to do with any larger conspiracy or premeditated planning.
My phone buzzed against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a message from my private investigator—the same one I'd hired to keep tabs on Maverick's condition, to provide me with updates that I couldn't obtain through official channels.
Subject has been moved out of immediate danger. Surgical intervention was successful. Currently unconscious but stable.
The phone left my hand before conscious thought intervened, sailing across the room to shatter against the far wall.
I stood there breathing hard, my chest heaving with an anger that had nowhere productive to go, no outlet that wouldn't result in further complications I couldn't afford.
"Useless," I heard myself saying, the word directed at Jessica's image still frozen on the television screen. "Completely fucking useless."